


Echo

by aiIenzo



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey, fucker, are you okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echo

Frank read about it in interviews. For John Mayer. Or Seth Green. The questioner asks that simple question that the comedians twist around to put the fun back into it--bring it back on a plane they can relate to--and the inspirational reply with quote-worthy statements or words that make the audience 'aw' and smile. 

'What inspires you?' they ask, and the questioned either thinks about it or doesn't, and they either reply politely or they don't. But the question gets asked and answered nevertheless. Frank sees it. Listens to it. Watches it in the scene he breathes. 

But it's almost odd--if he's honestly allowed to find things odd with the life that he leads and the friends he associates himself with--that none of these questions are raised to the band. Frank's taken an obsession about it; found old magazines, listened to old interviews, waits for it in the public, but the topic is never raised. It branches off ('What bands inspire you, Ray?'; What about the band inspired you agree to join, Bob?'), but never plain and simple. They pussyfoot around it. 

And Gerard never confronts it. 

Maybe they already realized it. 

It takes Frank longer. With all the time he spent with Gerard (ALL of Gerard: Gerard's demons, his voice, his drunken stupors, his body, his smell, his fascination with the undoubtedly psychotic), how he is to the public eye refuses to be taken into account, and only when Frank re-dreams a recreation of a night he's replayed thousands of times but can never quite remembers what exactly he was thinking, does it surface. 

And Frank gets it. 

Gerard is an echo. And echo of past lives and harsh times and devilish timing in unfortunate places. When things were never right. 

When the music echoed the soul. 

\---

 

It's nearly two in the morning, and they really should be sleeping and not drinking--definitely not drinking, because a group of five hungover guys trying to vote on a driver the next day is a bitch, and they usually end up picking numbers and wasting god knows how much time and have to drive ten miles over the speed limit just to get to the show on fucking time. 

And Gerard's not drunk--he's still sturdy--but he's getting there sooner than later with little red plastic cups in his hand that are gone before they have time to warm up in his failing grip. The show that night had been unbelievable, with arms flying in the crowd and sweat and blood and grime covering everything like it was supposed to, and Frank is pretty sure that the expression on Gerard's face when every mouth in the crowd was singing along, voices high and tense and begging for more, dark holes gaping to swallow everything Gerard was offering--yeah, Frank was pretty sure that was the best face Gerard could make, if you discounted impending orgasm. 

It didn't quite matter whether Gerard was drunk or not, really; they usually don't make him drive anyway. It was just...this unwritten agreement. Or fear. Maybe fear. Gerard wasn't exactly what you would call stable. Either way, they never talked about it, Gerard never questioned it, and life went on like it had been, and Gerard kept getting increasingly inebriated after every show before crashing on whatever happened to be cushioning him--or not--and falling into a sometimes fitful, sometimes not, sleep, filled with nothing but Gerard and Gerard and Gerard, and he didn't know really what to make of that, so he wrote lyrics and Frank played the song and that's just how it went. That's what a band did. 

But it was two in the morning and Frank's on the fucking lawn and he can't quite remember how or why. All he knows at the moment is that the grass is wet and his ass is cold and he's never been more happy about not being the first driver in the morning. So he figures, hell, why he's on the ground, he might as well accomplish nothing and be a complete jackass. Because it's just, you know, fitting. So he scans the crowd and picks out the people he likes and the people he doesn't and the ones he kind of wants to fuck now but not look at in the morning. There's a lot of the first and a few of the second and he keeps changing his mind about the third. There's a girl in a Godzilla shirt and Frank wrinkles his nose at the sudden surge of hate he feels, because he's not sure if he's mad at the girl for wearing the shirt or if he's mad at the shirt for being on the girl. But he stops caring after a minute because he's still sober enough to realize that the whole thing makes no fucking sense and hopefully, he won't have to see that girl in the morning anyway. 

The boy she's talking to is wearing something black. White lettering. Squinting and leaning forward melodramatically, he's finally able to focus long enough to read the bold print of 'the shit,' and he's considerably confused and passes it off as a lame idea for a shirt before he spots another in the crowd, pale pink with black lettering that states 'the shit goes down here,' and Frank has to laugh like a fucking lunatic because Gerard would totally love that, and Frank has to tell him. 

If he could just fucking find the guy. 

'Hey man!' someone calls, and Frank's attention is immediately redirected. And there, slightly to his left and slightly too far away for Frank's liking is Gerard, head turned towards the sound of the yell. 

A boy comes stumbling up, giggling at nothing, and points his finger in Gerard's face. Gerard smiles. He kind of likes people when he's drinking. Kind of. He loves them--to hang with them--but he still fucking hates them on the inside. It's fucked up. Gerard's fucked up.

Frank laughs at the thought, because right now, it's fucking funny. 'Gerard's fucked up'. It makes him laugh. It just sounds...funny. Inescapable. Like the realization of reality and your ignorance towards it because, hell, it's what you know. It's what you've always known.

'You're the guy, right?' the boys asks, slopping golden liquid down his chest. 'Fuck yes, it is. I saw you, on the fucking stage tonight, dude. The 'I'm not okaaaaaay, guy, right?'

Gerard laughs and smiles and his hair is starting to get disheveled again, a black mess scattered on a moonlight tanned face, just because he doesn't care, and nods his head and backs up slightly so if the boy falls over, it won't be onto him. Because, you know, he likes people, he just doesn't LIKE them. Like THEM. He doesn't like THEM at ALL. They're just like him and it drives him crazy, looking into a mirror. They spit out what they're imputed and they're--

echoing

Everything he is. 

The boy turns and walks a few steps before flipping back around, eyes alight when he sees Gerard behind him, like the first time he called his name, as if he forgot he just met Gerard a few seconds previously. 

'Hey, fucker, you okay?' the boy asks, then laughs until he has to grip his sides because the joke was just so fucking funny. 

And Gerard just smiles and shakes his head, eyes dim. 'Nah, man,' he replies, waving his hand. More smiles. Waves it off. Wave it off, Gerard. 'Nah.' 

And the guy points an imaginary gun at Gerard's head, cocking his thumb and cheering a 'fuck yeah, man,' and wandering off towards the bright lights of the house. 

And Frank sits on the grass, meters away yet miles away, looking from Gerard to the grass to Gerard to the sky. And maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the boy, or maybe it's just Gerard, but he feels like sobbing because he finally fucking gets it. 

It's Gerard. 

He's not okay. 

He's not okay. 

He's not o-fucking-kay.


End file.
